Of Music and Men
by Ariel D
Summary: A few stories that are a touch of humor involving Entreri, Jarlaxle, and that flute that's already giving some of you nightmares. Takes place after "Wickless." Delightfully Plot free. Repost.
1. Music and Men

**Of Music and Men **

By Ariel D

_Summary: A touch of humor involving Entreri and Jarlaxle . . . and that flute that's already giving some of you nightmares. ;) Takes place after "Wickless in the Nether." Delightfully Plot-free. :) _

Disclaimer: These two mercenaries belong to R.A. Salvatore and Wizards of the Coast. It is not my intention to trample any copyrights. Really, I'm just having some fun here.

A/N: Just for fun, folks. Written at 2 AM after way too much sugar. Plot? What plot? Mildly OOC. (You've been warned.) Probably a one-shot. This takes place after "Wickless in the Nether," which I hope all of you have read, or some parts of this won't make the greatest sense (and it'll spoiler you, too). At the least, spoiler! you need to know that in "Wickless" Entreri is given a magical wooden flute. This is my first attempt to write a comedy, so please be kind. Thank you.

* * *

Ten days had passed since Jarlaxle and Entreri had been commissioned by some self-important copper dragons to steal loot. Ten days since one of the copper dragons in question had given Entreri a wooden flute and ordered him to learn to play it. Ten days since Jarlaxle had begun claiming the assassin wasn't refined enough in skill to learn any musical instrument.

Ten days.

Artemis Entreri had yet to get more than an airy whistling noise out of the damn thing.

The assassin stood in the candelabra-filled apartment he shared with Jarlaxle—the apartment that was thankfully drowless at the moment—and contemplated the atrocity which was defiling his bed. The grey wooden flute lay innocently in the middle of his linen sheets where he's tossed it, its finger holes seeming to gaze at him smugly. The Evil Flute did not understand what kind of enemy it had made.

The assassin walked silently to his bed and picked up the offending instrument. "You'll never win," he told it. Placing the flute against his mouth, he tried once again to produce a sound—any sound other than that irritating airy one.

_Phooooooo. Ftph. Fthssss. Phoofssssssssst. Ftph._

The Evil Flute did a graceful arch back onto Entreri's bed, and the assassin spent several moments dreaming up new and inventive deaths for irritating wooden instruments and equally annoying copper dragons. After several moments completely lost in a rosy haze of bloody daydreams, Entreri returned to glaring at The Evil Flute. It didn't know how lucky it was that he hadn't chopped it into tiny pieces.

If Entreri had been a less stubborn man, he would have carved a whistle out of the damn thing by now . . . or perhaps used it for firewood. But alas, Artemis Entreri was determined to never be beaten by anything—not an opponent, not a goody-goody drow, and certainly not by a stupid piece of wood.

Of course, there was also the issue of the powerful copper dragon who'd made it clear she'd wanted him to learn to play it. Angry dragons were generally not a good thing.

But that wasn't why Entreri was going to learn to play The Evil Flute, he told himself. He was going to learn to play it to prove that he could. He was very intelligent and highly skilled, and he didn't see that there should be any exception to what he could accomplish.

Besides, Jarlaxle would never let him live it down if he didn't. And if there was anything Entreri did not want to do, it was give that exasperating drow more fodder with which to tease him.

As if on cue, the eye sore in question blew through the door, all smiles and glittering gold. The assassin could have sworn the drow had added five new necklaces to the cacophony of clinking metal which layered his throat. "Good evening, Artemis! And what a fine evening it is! Shall we dine?"

Entreri turned his glare upon the drow. "Why do you not simply paint your entire body with gold? It'd likely be less expensive and ultimately less garish."

Jarlaxle threw his rainbow-colored cape off his shoulder and twirled his silvery, ferret-headed cane in one hand. The enormous purple feather in his hat bobbed as he titled his head to the side. "What a brilliant idea, my friend! Perhaps I shall." His grin was wide and innocent, which always spelled doom. "Or perhaps not."

"Dare I ask?" Entreri ventured.

"It is only that it's a touch cold here in Damara."

"What ever are you babbling about now?" Entreri turned back to The Evil Flute and snatched it up, putting it in his belt.

"Well, I would have to go naked, of course, so that everyone could enjoy the splendor of my body art."

Entreri's brain immediately tried to formulate a mental image, and he shuddered, knocking the thought from his mind. "If you ever make me imagine something like that again, I'll pull your intestines out through your throat."

Jarlaxle laughed. "Given your lack of imagination, I'm surprised you produced a mental image at all. But do tell me—was I handsome? Was it not spectacular?"

The drow was mere moments away from death. Entreri wondered if he realized it.

Probably.

"Come now," Jarlaxle said, swooping back out of the apartment. "Fine food and beautiful women await us at the nearest tavern."

"If you'd learn to cook, we wouldn't have to spend so much gold on taverns," the assassin shot back.

Jarlaxle's white teeth seemed to take up most of his ebony face as he smiled. "How did you fair with the flute today, my friend? Have you coaxed out its secrets?"

Entreri, who was completely immune to Jarlaxle's abrupt topic changes, didn't so much as blink. "The flute and I are getting along fine," he said, grabbing his cloak off the coat rack and exiting the room.

Jarlaxle snickered, and the assassin could tell he was in for an evening of teasing. Entreri applied himself to trapping their room and prepared himself for the onslaught.

"You really should give the flute to me," Jarlaxle said, his tone quickly growing melodramatic. "_I_ know how to caress it with my breath, to move my hands across its body. I'll have it playing beautiful music within the night, I daresay! I'll seduce its inner magic and—"

Entreri turned from the door-turned-death-trap and glared at the elf. "I never dreamed I would say this, but do hurry and lie with the dragon. I'm unsure how many more of your lewd innuendoes I can stomach."

Jarlaxle, of course, merely laughed. "Really, now, my friend. You must learn to treat the flute with respect. It will never give up its song for you if you throw it around or curse at it."

Entreri's eyes narrowed, and he briefly wondered if The Evil Flute and the drow were in league. "You do not wish to hear my reply to that."

Jarlaxle smiled sweetly at his friend as they started down the hallway. "Why not, my dear Artemis?"

"I was going to insult your hypothetical manhood."

"You question my manhood? Well, when I get my body covered in gold, you will quickly learn that—"

Entreri moved his hands to his weapons' hilts, and Jarlaxle began laughing.

"Perhaps I'll commission to have you bronzed instead," the assassin quipped. "Fully clothed, of course. If I remove your hat first, you might conceivably make a decent statue. Or, at the very least, a useful coat rack."

The drow just grinned. "I would make a beautiful statue regardless of the material involved. My grace and beauty emanate from within me, showering everyone I meet with—"

"Endless nonsensical babble," Entreri interrupted. "You could talk a drunken dwarf deaf and make a stone wall cry."

"Why thank you!"

Entreri began slowly counting to one million. The drow lived to bait him, and banter aside, he wasn't about to give him the pleasure of genuinely irritating him. They descended the stairs and crossed the street to the tavern which had become their new haunt.

The Flaming Frog tavern, though oddly named, served excellent food and (according to Jarlaxle, at least) had beautiful barmaids. Entreri himself could have cared less what the women looked like as long as they brought his food and refilled his drink promptly, but Jarlaxle could not eat without giving the assassin a running commentary on the women. Resigned to this fate, Entreri chose a corner table, which afforded them the room's shadows and a view of the door, and sat down, keeping his patience firmly intact.

The tavern was only mildly crowded this night, with the murmur of voices only a hum in the background. The lack of a horde afforded the lecherous elf a good view of the barmaids as they moved from table to table. As soon as Jarlaxle sat across from Entreri, he made a show of surveying the room.

"Ah, the charming blonde is working tonight," he noted with a smile. "And the wry brunette! Why, Artemis, we are in luck!"

"I would have thought you would have learned all their names by now," Entreri replied dryly.

Jarlaxle stopped his appraisal long enough to grin at the assassin. "Oh, I have. And their preferences, too. But I assumed you'd be uninterested in the details. General designations are likely all they'll ever be to you." He shook his head in exaggerated resignation. "Really, Artemis, you should g—"

"Our barmaid approaches," Entreri interrupted.

Jarlaxle glanced at the curvy, voluptuous young woman headed their way. "Ah! The spry strawberry blonde! Excellent."

Entreri didn't bother acknowledging that the elf had spoken.

"What can I get you sirs?" the young woman asked as she stopped at their table. If she had anything to recommend her, Entreri decided, it was her courage. She only seemed mildly discomforted at the presence of the drow—a true feat no matter how many times the mercenaries dined there. Even if Jarlaxle wasn't drow, his gaudy attire would be enough to unsettle most people.

"Your finest wine and rarest steak—" the drow began.

"Well done," Entreri cut in, "and cooked with garlic and onions."

"Not garlic," Jarlaxle said.

"Plenty of garlic," the assassin added with a nasty smile.

The barmaid nodded and walked off, and as soon as she did, Jarlaxle gave Entreri a slanted glance. "No wonder you are forever without a woman. You reek of garlic half the time!"

"Does that annoy you?" the assassin asked.

"I am not a woman," the drow replied.

"I remain not entirely convinced of that, but you have not answered my question."

The elf grinned. "Of course I am not bothered!"

"I don't believe you."

Jarlaxle began chuckling. "You're simply dodging my efforts to find you a beautiful woman."

Entreri's only reply was a small snort.

"Take the wry brunette for example. Sharp mind, cunning banter—"

"Do you wish for me to engage in political debate with her or seduce her?"

Jarlaxle laughed outright. "Well, I assume you don't like dumb women." He grinned wickedly. "Do brunettes not catch your fancy? What of blondes, then?"

Entreri studiously ignored the monologue.

"Red-heads it is, then! Truly, I must agree with you. There's nothing more beautiful than a woman with deep auburn hair, or perhaps a shiny copper red, or even a—"

"Didn't I tell you to hurry and lie with the dragon?"

Jarlaxle continued as though he hadn't been interrupted. "—brighter red. Although blondes are attractive also. Or—wait!—a woman with satiny black hair. Yes. Long legs, pronounced curves, full lips, brown or green eyes . . ." The drow seemed to be headed into a pleasant daydream.

Entreri sighed. "Jarlaxle, you're a whore."

The elf blinked at him as though he were coming out of a daze. "Not at all! I would never demand that a female pay me for pleasure, no matter how well I'd met her needs."

Entreri's withering gaze could have shriveled a vineyard into a field of raisins. "I'll pretend you didn't say that."

Jarlaxle grinned. "Really, now, you should relax and enjoy the finer things in life! Considering how well you understand the human body, I'm sure you would be the ladies' favorite in no time! Why, I bet that—"

Entreri tuned out the elf again and started counting to one million once more. He found himself doing it so often now that he had begun unintentionally counting other things as well: his footsteps as he walked, stair steps as he climbed them, the number of people he passed on the street . . . If he wasn't careful, the drow might drive him mad.

At that thought, the assassin reflected that it was a good thing he was so strong-willed. Only someone with nerves like dragon scales would be able to withstand the drow's incessant bubbling chatter.

Unfortunately for the poor man, Entreri had counted all the cracks in the table before he realized what he was doing and stopped.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

After supper, the mercenaries returned to their apartment. The fire in the fireplace both lent the room a cozy glow and warmed it nicely. The drow smiled as he entered and hung his cape and oversized hat on the coat rack. That task accomplished, Jarlaxle proceeded to curl into the red velvet chair and pull a leather-bound book off the table and into his lap.

As Entreri watched Jarlaxle settle into the wing-back chair, he was oddly reminded of a black cat. Well, a black cat dressed in a hideous carnival costume. "You're going to read?"

"Certainly! It's an excellent tale of adventure, heroism, and romance!" Jarlaxle waved the book in the air. "You really should read it. It would expand that dark, flat void you call a mind."

Entreri sneered at him . . . and then hit upon the perfect plan. It was no secret that the assassin had yet to get a clear tone from the flute. So . . .

After shedding his own cloak and weapons belt (and lodging his dagger in the wall), Entreri settled cross-legged on his narrow bed and whipped out The Evil Flute. Jarlaxle's ear drums were going to pay for all the times Entreri had suffered the drow's incessant yapping.

_Phooftsssssssss. Ftph. Phooooooo. Ftss. Ftssst._

Jarlaxle glanced up at the assassin with a smile but resumed reading.

_Ftsssssss. Ftphooo. Ftsssstftssssst. Chirp!_

Entreri pulled The Evil Flute away from his mouth and eyed it. It had never made that sound before. The assassin was plenty intelligent enough to ascertain that the angle of his lips and air stream were what had to be aligned correctly . . . that, and the position of his lower lip in relation to the hole. But getting all those things simultaneously positioned correctly was proving more difficult than he liked.

Well, if he didn't hate the thing so much, perhaps it would be less challenging.

Resolving to be endlessly, purely, and flawlessly patient (if for no other reason than to successfully torture Jarlaxle), Entreri resumed his efforts. Inhaling deeply, he tried again. Airy, near-whistling sounds filled the room. Undeterred, the assassin continued—and kept the drow in his periphery so he could gauge his reaction.

Five minutes passed. Jarlaxle shifted in his chair.

Ten minutes passed. Jarlaxle had shifted his position a half dozen times. He had yet to turn the page he was on.

Fifteen minutes passed. Jarlaxle's breathing had grown shallower in the way of someone who was losing his temper, and the skin around his eyes and mouth had grown tight. He was trying hard not to show his annoyance, Entreri could tell, but he wasn't entirely succeeding.

Twenty minutes passed. The drow slammed his book shut and grinned sweetly at the human—that sugary I'm-Going-to-Kill-You-Slowly look.

"Do your lips not hurt from the effort?" the drow asked, his voice commendably even.

Entreri lowered the flute. Actually, his facial muscles ached so much he wondered if he'd be able to form coherent syllables when he spoke. "Why?"

"Just curious." Jarlaxle opened his book and started reading again. Entreri grinned in spite of himself, discovering accidentally that smiling helped ease some of the pain from his face.

In a final show of stubborn pettiness—both toward The Evil Flute and Jarlaxle—Entreri lifted the thrice-damned wooden instrument to his mouth one more time and tried again.

A note came out.

"_C_ sharp," Jarlaxle commented without looking up, then jerked his head around and stared at the assassin.

Entreri stared at The Evil Flute like it'd suddenly sprouted leaves. Recovering, he shrugged and placed it on the bed beside him. "It was only a matter of time."

"You're stopping now? After only one note?" The instant the elf said those words, he looked like he wanted to cut out his own tongue.

Entreri grinned again. A wicked, diabolical grin. "Ah. Good point, my friend." With stoic determination, he picked up The Evil Flute and explored every single note and sound he could create.

Jarlaxle didn't get any reading accomplished that night.

* * *

_A/N: Well, I hope someone enjoyed this insanity. ;) Oh—and for those who don't know, the "You'll never win" line is a quote from Baldur's Gate: Dark Alliance II. If you play the game using Artemis, you'll hear that line enough times that it'll end up in your dreams, lol._

If anyone's wondering, yes, I do play the flute.

Much thanks to my beta readers, Matt and Darkhelmetj, for entertaining my madness. As for the second story of Descent into Darkness,_ I'm on chapter 3 now. I'm guessing mid to late June to start posting it.  
_


	2. Bad Day for Ballads

**Part II: A Bad Day for Ballads**  
The Wackier Sequel

By Ariel

_Description: Jarlaxle can't sing, shouldn't sing, and especially shouldn't attempt singing ballads to the wrong lady. Humor, Wackiness, and Insanity. Plotless. _

Disclaimer: These two mercenaries belong to R.A. Salvatore and Wizards of the Coast. It is not my intention to trample any copyrights. No profit is being made; I'm stuck with Ramen and rice.

A/N: More sugar-induced humor. Takes place a month after the events in "Of Music and Men." I reiterate: vaguely OOC and ultimately plotless. You have once again been warned. Written pre-POTWK (in June, actually) and therefore ignores all things established about the flute by that novel.

* * *

Trailsend, Damara  
2nd of Eleint, 1368 D.R.

It was predictable. Unavoidable. Ultimately inevitable. Jarlaxle could not last a day—no, half a day—without getting in trouble. And trouble for Jarlaxle meant trouble for Entreri.

The assassin had a firm hold on Jarlaxle's hideous rainbow-colored cape. Exiting the elegant castle that towered over the city of Trailsend, Entreri dragged said drow behind him. "I told you not to do it," the human snapped.

Forced to follow, Jarlaxle grasped Entreri's arm and clung on as the assassin rushed across the wooden drawbridge and out into the cobblestone street. "Why not?" he asked, a picture of innocence. "She was a perfectly gorgeous lady, and I thought to immortalize her beauty with a lovely—"

"Bawdy," Entreri corrected, making his way down the wet and crowded street.

"Suggestive but still tasteful," Jarlaxle insisted, "ballad. What is the harm in that?"

"Other than the fact your singing voice sounds like a cat being stretched on the rack?"

Jarlaxle dodged a particularly large puddle of rainwater and then looked at Entreri with mock hurt. "I have a rather fine singing voice," he said. "At least I understand the concept of pitch, unlike an overly moody and charmless assassin I know. Every time you play your flute, the nearest songbirds faint, and all dogs within hearing range go mad. Not to mention that my eardrums bleed."

Entreri glanced over his shoulder with a wicked grin. "Yes. I know."

The elf sighed. "You dodged my question. Why was my musical poetry—"

"You mean steaming pile of horse manure?" Entreri interjected.

"—such an offense?" Jarlaxle continued.

Entreri stopped in his tracks, still not releasing his handful of hideous cape, and stared at the elf. "Why, I have no idea!" he said sarcastically, keeping his voice low despite the hum of the crowd. "If we aren't counting your heinous warbling and pathetic rhymes, then I'd say it would have to be the fact that you basically asked the baroness to lie with you."

Jarlaxle blinked. "So?"

The assassin felt his right eye twitch. "The _baron_ was standing a mere five feet away! I can't get us out of Trailsend fast enough!" Entreri stalked off again, still dragging the drow behind him. "I swear, Jarlaxle, you charm our way into rich, powerful company only to get us chased away by an army."

The mercenary made a show of looking around at the carriages, pedestrians, and crowded storefronts. "No one is following us."

"Openly," Entreri replied. "Now stop playing the fool." Jarlaxle cackled, and the assassin had to restrain the urge to run him through. "You are going to have to start controlling your lecherous impulses, or we're going to be more than out of a job—we're going to be dead."

"Nonsense," the drow replied. "Besides, it is high time for us to return to Heliogabalus."

"I'd still like to choke the idiot who named that city," Entreri muttered. "For some reason, every time I hear the name spoken, I think of turkeys."

"What are turkeys?" Jarlaxle asked, then shook his head. "Never mind. Just think! We can soon visit a beautiful, copper-haired lady—"

"_Monster._" Entreri sighed. "Gads, Jarlaxle, can you not find yourself a lover who is not either married or a wyrm?"

The drow, however, seemed lost in a hazy daydream and did not answer.

"I'm being punished," the assassin mumbled to himself. "Punished, I say. Or perhaps I've already died and am in the nine hells but don't know it." He dragged Jarlaxle toward their inn, wanting to collect their possessions and leave Trailsend posthaste. Given Baron Donlevy the Young's reaction to having his wife be wooed by a drow, Entreri couldn't image that he and his friend would escape unscathed. They would have to stay off the roads, sleep either in the forest or in out-of-the-way inns. And a disguise! Entreri needed to get Jarlaxle, at the least, into a disguise.

The assassin glanced over his shoulder at the distinctly-dressed drow with his monstrous purple hat, oversized gold necklaces, and red eye patch.

Yes. A disguise was a must.

* * *

The mercenaries had fled Trailsend with the town guard on their heels, and even after a nicely executed escape, still found themselves pursued by a few ill-sporting paladins. Entreri's locating of a safe inn for the night had been a stroke of pure genius and a feat the assassin now planned to make Jarlaxle pay for dearly. A quick trip out the following morning allowed Entreri to find a disguise for the lecherous elf.

"A disguise!" Jarlaxle exclaimed at Entreri's declaration when the assassin returned to their room.

The man's evil grin could have frozen the blood of a white dragon. "Oh, yes. After our close encounter with the baron's goodly paladins last night, I think a disguise is definitely in order." Entreri deposited a box on Jarlaxle's bed and stood back.

"If I wanted to disguise myself," the drow said as he opened the box, "I have magical charms which can do that. The purchase of a disguise was a waste of—"

Entreri enjoyed the brief respite of babble as Jarlaxle was rendered perfectly speechless. The drow lifted the disguise from the box and held it before him. "A . . . dress?"

"Not just any dress," the assassin said. "A satin gown complete with petticoats and matching satin slippers. Do tell me that you can ride your horse sidesaddle?"

Jarlaxle stared at the canary yellow dress with its lacy hem and crimson bows. "If we are attacked, this dress will be completely impractical to fight in! Not to mention how difficult it will be to ride a horse wearing a dress—especially one with petticoats!"

Entreri smirked. "You should have considered that before singing to the baroness." He motioned at the box. "There's a black wig, too. It will hide both your bald head and your pointed ears; people should assume you're merely a dark-skinned human. After all, you are rather dainty for a male."

The drow merely turned a sugary smile upon Entreri, which gave the assassin a sinking feeling. "You purchased this out of revenge for my 'bad behavior,' did you not? You don't believe I'll actually wear it."

In truth, Entreri couldn't begin to imagine Jarlaxle in a dress, and he'd had a vague hope that Jarlaxle would be offended by the shiny color, if not the outfit itself. "Of course I do," he said, suddenly realizing the visual torture he'd set himself up for.

"No you don't." Jarlaxle's grin grew, and he laid the dress on the bed and fingered the wig. "This wig just won't do if I have to wear it longer than a few hours. I'll have to grow out my own hair."

Entreri's eyebrow tried to crawl off his forehead. "And how do you plan to accomplish such a feat in a matter of hours?"

Jarlaxle produced a vial from his belt pack. "With this, of course."

Entreri could smell the doom. "And what is that?"

Jarlaxle merely laughed and uncorked the vial, drinking the contents in one gulp. His little nose wrinkled in disgust. "Really, can they not make these things taste better?"

Entreri was massaging his temples. "Jarlaxle. If you grow out your real hair, it will be white. Everyone will know you're drow."

"I can fix that," the mercenary replied flippantly. He took off his hat and set it on the bed. "Now, to try on my new dress! I do hope you got my measurements right, Artemis."

Entreri vacated the room, muttering about bringing the horses around. Drow laughter chased him down the stairs. Unfortunately, the assassin saved himself nothing. The sight that greeted the waiting Entreri was worse than he imagined. When Jarlaxle levitated down from their room's window—hiding both his exit and his disguise from the innkeeper and guests—Entreri wondered that the horses didn't bolt. The yellow dress and black wig did, in fact, make Jarlaxle look reasonably feminine. But the oversized purple hat and mass of gold necklaces ruined the effect.

The drow touched down to the ground and held his arms out, inviting Entreri to take a closer look. The assassin, however, wanted anything but that. Entreri placed his left palm against his forehead and groaned. "Jarlaxle, my friend . . . I know you'll refuse to take off all those magical necklaces, but for the love of all creatures with eyes, take off your hat."

Jarlaxle sauntered up to Entreri and took the reins of his horse. When the beast remained calm, the assassin had to wonder if it had already been rendered blind by the visual atrocity that was the drow. "But I need the hat to ensure this silly wig remains in place! Well, at least until my own hair grows out."

Entreri began his now daily habit of counting to one million. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

By the time Entreri had secured an inn for Jarlaxle and himself that night, he'd discovered a whole new meaning for the word "torture." One had not suffered unless one had traveled down a muddy, manure-filled road with a singing drow who was wearing a luminous yellow dress and a purple hat. Every passerby had stopped to stare at the odd "couple." Most had been rendered mute. Entreri considered it likely that they had also been traumatized for life.

Jarlaxle applied himself to a rather large dinner before retiring for the night. Entreri's appetite was not so great, but he managed to swallow the most garlic-basted steak he could order. The drow didn't complain of the smell, however, and so the utterly defeated assassin went to bed. His very brain seemed to ache. Sleep. Yes, sleep. That would help.

What little of it he got. The assassin was awakened at the first light of dawn by a moan of pain. He shook himself awake and sat up. Across from him in the other bed sat a miserable-looking drow . . . a drow with shoulder-length white hair.

"I need steak," Jarlaxle said plaintively. "I crave meat! I absolutely must have steak! And eggs. And shrimp. Oh! And mutton." He seemed ready to eat his own arm.

The assassin looked between the shiny white tresses which now brushed Jarlaxle's shoulders and the elf's pained facial expression. What in the nine hells did meat have to do with hair? Maybe it was just an odd side effect of the potion's ingredients. "So go get some breakfast," the irritated human said.

"You come, too," the drow ordered, swaying as he stood. "I honestly don't think I'll be able to navigate the stairs if you don't. Besides, you're the one who put me in this situation."

"Me?"

"You insisted on a disguise!"

Reflexively, Entreri began counting to one million. He and Jarlaxle quickly dressed, and Entreri held the drow's elbow in order to assist him downstairs. _What now?_ the assassin asked himself, trying not to think about the sight they made: a conservatively dressed man leading a "lady" in a hideous yellow and red dress and a purple hat down the staircase.

However, Entreri's irritation was soon eclipsed by his astonishment as the slender drow beside him consumed what seemed to be twice his weight in meat and eggs.

"Do you have two stomachs?" the assassin asked at last, his own appetite destroyed by the elf's frantic consumption of runny eggs and still-bloody steak. "If you continue to eat at such a pace, people will think you're pregnant."

Jarlaxle grinned as he reached for his next plate of food. "Am I carrying your child, then?"

Entreri narrowed his eyes and didn't deign to address the taunt. "My point is that even the most gluttonous halfling I've ever known never ate so much food in one sitting."

"Uim jumst bery unwy," the elf replied through a mouthful of nearly raw steak.

"Never mind," the assassin sighed. It was going to be a _very_ long day. Especially if they were going to have to stop every hour or so and eat. Artemis Entreri had always despised teleportation, but just this once, he wished he and Jarlaxle could be teleported to their apartment in Heliogabalus.

The drow used his bloody knife to point at Entreri's eggs. "Are you going to eat that?"

"No," the assassin answered patiently.

"Does it have garlic on it?"

"Not this morning."

The elf nodded resolutely and stole the rest of Entreri's food. Down went the eggs, practically in one gulp. Jarlaxle then turned to the assassin with a grin. "So. I have hair. Do I now make a stunningly beautiful female?"

Entreri looked at the seven empty plates which were piled at Jarlaxle's elbow, then glanced back at the white hair sticking out from under the elf's overwhelming purple hat. "Frankly, no."

The elf snickered. "Oh, you know I do. I'm the most beautiful damsel in all Faerun!"

The assassin just smirked and resumed counting to one million. Maybe he could count the passersby as they rode to the next town. Or the birds that flew over head. Better yet, he could count the trees. Since they were traveling through a forest, that ought to keep him busy.

It was going to be a long day, indeed.

* * *

Warbling birds, roasting meat, warm sunlight, and a singing drow—Entreri opened his eyes to what Jarlaxle would no doubt call a beautiful day. Sitting up in his bedroll, he glanced across the forest clearing to find Jarlaxle cooking a rabbit over their carefully constructed campfire. Fortunately, given that they'd had to spend the night in the open, the elf wasn't wearing the dress.

"Lily May was a sweet, sweet maid," the elf sang, "her beckoning eyes the deepest of blues. And once I did as I was bade, she—"

"Shut up," Entreri said. He'd been conscious one minute, and he already wanted to choke the drow.

"Good morning, my friend!" Jarlaxle tipped his hat at the assassin and then took a deep breath, obviously meaning to continue the bawdy ballad.

"I told you to _be silent,_" Entreri said, a sharp pain lancing his temple. "Given the grief your ballads have caused us, I forbid you to ever sing again."

Jarlaxle merely laughed. "How rude! Are you not supposed to compliment a lady first thing in the morning?" He pulled his now waist-length hair over his shoulder. "I would say I am utter perfection now. Would you not agree?"

"Perfection?" Entreri snickered. "Perfectly gluttonous, perhaps. An entire herd of cows had to die in order to feed you!"

Jarlaxle just grinned and flung his hair back over his shoulder. "I believe the side effect has waned."

"Thank the gods!" Entreri snapped. "Be glad we are within a half-day of Heliogabalus."

"I should think you would be the one who'd be glad, given that it was your fault I was so ravenous."

_"Jarlaxle."_

"Although I must admit that I am looking forward to the luxurious, loving embrace of—"

_"Jarlaxle!"_

"What?" the drow asked, trying to look innocent.

"I promise extreme pain and suffering should you continue," Entreri said in a low voice.

Jarlaxle watched him closely, and the assassin wasn't surprised, given that he was channeling his death glare. "Is that so?"

Entreri smiled wickedly and slowly drew The Evil Flute from his belt pack. "If you ever sing another ballad or mention again the attentions of a certain copper dragon, I will serenade you with every tune I've heard in my entire life."

Jarlaxle looked positively horror-stricken. "You wouldn't."

"I'll play out-of-tune on purpose. Loudly. Especially when you are trying to take Reverie."

The drow looked panicked, as though someone had cursed him to never drink wine or woo beautiful women ever again. "You are truly a cold-hearted man."

Entreri merely smirked.

And so it was that one very grumpy assassin had a nice warm breakfast of roasted rabbit with one very conspicuously silent drow.

All was well in the world.

* * *

_A/N: A very big thanks to Darkhelmet, who graciously betaread three drafts of this puppy. Also, thank you to Euphorbic, who made an amusing suggestion. _

Thank you to any and all who read and (especially) review.

UPDATE on "The Sacrifice for Salvation": I realize I haven't yet posted chapter one as I promised, but I've been felled by some arm strain. However, the story is currently at 14,500 words, and I hope to post chapter 1 within the next two weeks or so.


	3. Assassins Do Not Play Flutes

_A/N: I'm not sure what happened—I don't remember now—but I realized this chapter was missing. So I've reposted it._

_Original post date: 9/30/06  
_

_

* * *

_

**Part III: Assassins Do Not Play Flutes**  
We Are Now a Trilogy!

By Ariel

_Description: Entreri and Jarlaxle experience extreme fallout from their previous adventure. Situational Humor, Wackiness, and Insanity. Vaguely plotless._

_Disclaimer: These two mercenaries belong to R.A. Salvatore and Wizards of the Coast. It is not my intention to trample any copyrights. No profit is being made; I'm stuck with Ramen and rice._

_A/N: More insanity! No, this is not slash or even slash related—don't get confused by the dress or its resulting problems. Takes place a month after the events in "Of Music and Men" and ten days after "Bad Day for Ballads." Jarlaxle still has his long hair. I reiterate (yet again): vaguely OOC. For a third time, you have been warned. Follows "Wickless in the Nether" but ignores PotWK._

* * *

Heliogabulus, Damara  
12th of Eleint, 1368 D.R.

Entreri was damned. He was sure of it.

The assassin awakened to find a smiling drow leaning over his bed, poking him in the ribs. "You slept through my entering the room?" Jarlaxle asked. "That is unheard of! Did you acquire some female company after I left last night?"

Entreri sat up, rubbed his eyes, and considered the hideous attire of his friend: a canary yellow dress with crimson bows, a purple hat with a monstrous plume, and five dozen golden necklaces. "Looking at you puts me off of female company for days at a time."

Jarlaxle clucked his tongue. "Shouldn't your expansive human male virility overcome such obstacles?"

The assassin snorted but didn't deign to reply. The tortures which had followed him for the last tenday fell into a category all their own: Jarlaxle had sung a bawdy ballad to a baroness, for which they'd been chased halfway across Damara, so now when they left Heliogabalus on a mission for their dragon employers, disguises were necessary. Even worse, Jarlaxle had insisted on keeping his disguise, which was that of a fashion-challenged lady.

"Arise and smile!" Jarlaxle exclaimed in the face of Entreri's silence. "Today will be exciting and profitable!" He chuckled and swept across the room, as though drawing attention to the yellow dress, and stopped only to glance out the window.

"Exciting and profitable?" Entreri echoed. "Don't you mean suicidal and painful? Since I have begun working with you, a day doesn't pass that I am not stabbed, burned, electrocuted, attacked by dragons, chased by liches, or pursued by the forces of 'good' and law for your misconduct."

"My misconduct?" Jarlaxle said, turning away from the small window. "You are an assassin and a thief."

"With greater sense than yours."

"Less imagination," the elf corrected.

"My feet are on the ground," Entreri replied. "Your head lives on the moon. Besides, it was not my thievery that had us chased across Damara. It was your overactive nether region." The assassin climbed out of bed and began pulling on his clothes.

Jarlaxle simply laughed. "Are you calling me a whore again?"

Entreri jerked his shirt on and glared at the drow. "Of course you're a whore. You've had sex with how many women? 1000? No, that can't be right. 2000? No." He snapped up his weapon belt and secured it around his waist. "Even if I estimate that you've been alive for 500 years and assume you'd only had one woman per tenday, which I find unlikely—" He paused, calculating in his head. "We'll just say 36 tendays times 500 years. That would be . . . 18,000 women!"

The elf grinned and gestured at the yellow dress and its petticoats. "I'm honored that you have such faith in me even when I'm dressed in such a manner."

Entreri snorted. "If you actually became a female, even for a day, you'd have sex with the first man you met just to see what it felt like as a woman."

"But of course!" the drow exclaimed. "And what an adventure that would be."

The assassin stared at the drow with half-hooded eyes. "As long as you're dressed as a female, some man might try to woo you anyway if you're not careful."

"Well, I am beautiful regardless of what clothes I wear."

Entreri sighed. "Just tell me what job you have lined up for us. No one should ever have to tolerate drow antics on an empty stomach."

Jarlaxle laughed.

* * *

Four hours later, Entreri and his "female" companion entered the small town of Ziran in eastern Damara. The dragon sisters had sent them on this mission with the hope of securing The Twin Hearts—two fist-sized rubies. The Valterra Ruins, which stood on the outskirts of Ziran, were rumored to be the resting place of these prized jewels, but the mercenaries would have to inquire among the locals for information about the ancient, crumbling city. So they set their sights on the town's only tavern with plans to question the barkeep, barmaids, or customers—whoever seemed willing and able to give accurate information.

However, when Entreri saw the tavern's sign, he stopped dead in his tracks and refused to go any further.

Jarlaxle glanced at his friend curiously. "What ails you, _abbil_?"

"The _Red Dragon_?" Entreri said, pointing at the sign. "I am not going into a tavern named The Red Dragon!"

"An unfortunate name, I agree, especially for a land that was once terrorized by dragons," Jarlaxle said. "However, I'm sure it's actually a very inviting establishment."

Entreri snorted, gesturing at the brightly painted sign, which depicted a hunching red dragon with narrowed eyes, smoky nostrils, and fire leaping from its mouth. "That is not inviting! That dragon wants to burn the patrons into cinders, not ask them in for a drink."

Jarlaxle laughed. "Perhaps you are right, but we have little choice. Come, my friend!"

"You and your damn dragons," Entreri muttered, following the drow.

As the mercenaries entered the establishment, the assassin had a now-familiar moment of distress. Something about being associated with the disguised drow made his stomach clench. Objectively, Jarlaxle could look worse: the drow had temporarily stowed his hat and eye patch in one of his inter-dimensional pouches and used a glamour to lighten his skin and eyes and darken his hair. The result was a believable (if still gaudy) elf female. Yet Entreri still had the sensation that the patrons would look at the drow, immediately become nauseated, and in short order throw the two mercenaries out (or die trying).

Then again, Jarlaxle was likely banking on the assassin's discomfort. Entreri held in a sigh and followed the drow as "she" chose a table. Inadvertently, he counted the number of tables and chairs in the room along the way.

A barmaid noted them and came to their table. "Welcome to The Red Dragon! What would you like?"

"For you to change the name of your tavern," Entreri replied with a smirk.

"Two wines and a—ah—moment of your time," Jarlaxle said in a high pitched voice.

The assassin raised an eyebrow over the drow's verbal glitch, but the woman simply nodded and headed to the bar.

"Tell me you didn't just start to woo that woman," Entreri hissed.

"This dress is a curse," Jarlaxle moaned dramatically. "I should shed it immediately."

"Certainly not," the assassin replied. "I know I do not wish to see you naked, and I doubt the women present would be as enamored of the show as you believe."

"But I began applying my golden body art yesterday," the drow said, ignoring the insult. "Don't you wish to see it?"

Since Entreri knew Jarlaxle was joking, he didn't bother to reply. Instead, he focused on the returning barmaid, who he proceeded to question at length. The barmaid kept looking at Jarlaxle during the conversation and frowning furiously at the assassin's questions, as if to say _You would drag such a dainty lady through dangerous ruins?_ By the end of the conversation, Entreri was feeling a bit miffed, though he strived not to show it.

"I'm going to speak with the barkeep," the assassin said, further disgruntled by Jarlaxle's barely contained mirth. And he proceeded to do just that, wringing as much information from the tavern owner as he could. All seemed reasonably well until Entreri turned to head back to his table. To his utter horror, the assassin saw a man bending over Jarlaxle's hand.

The man, obviously thrown by the glamour, had apparently decided Jarlaxle really was a female. Even as Entreri neared, the man kissed the back of Jarlaxle's hand and blushed. Given the man's fair complexion, which matched his pale blond hair, the blush stood out like a sunburn.

"Excuse me, my lady, but may I have your name?" the man asked.

"But I like my name!" the amused drow replied in a decidedly feminine voice. "I wish to keep it."

The man's blush deepened, running up his face to disappear under his hair, but he didn't relinquish Jarlaxle's hand. "No, I mean would you tell me your name. I am Gregory McFellan."

The assassin rolled his eyes.

"I am only teasing," Jarlaxle said, dipping his chin in a coy manner. "My name is Helena."

_Helena?_ Entreri thought, increasing his pace toward the table.

Apparently seeing the frowning assassin headed his way, Gregory squeezed Jarlaxle's hand and dropped it. "Are you—I mean, is this your husband?"

Entreri halted in his tracks, so horrified by the assumption that he couldn't take another step. Jarlaxle burst into peels of laughter.

"No, not at all," the drow finally managed to say. "We are merely friends."

Gregory, his gaze sweeping down Jarlaxle's figure—or lack thereof—seemed relieved. "I am profoundly glad to hear that. May I call upon you, then?"

Galvanized into action, Entreri strode forward and grabbed Jarlaxle's arm. "No, you may not."

Gregory narrowed his eyes at his "competition," and Jarlaxle nearly choked trying not to laugh. The assassin, however, was not amused and jerked the drow to his feet.

"Say farewell to your would-be lover," Entreri snarled at the drow. "We are leaving."

Gregory drew himself up to his full six-foot height and put his hand on his sword hilt. "Any man who would treat a lady so roughly does not deserve her company. Unhand her at once, sir, or I shall be forced to call you out!"

Entreri stared at the man, momentarily stunned by the ridiculousness of it. _A gentleman just threatened to duel me over the treatment of a cross-dressing male drow?_ The assassin decided the gods were especially bored this day.

Jarlaxle, of course, was not above playing up the dramatic potential of the scene. He placed his hand on Entreri's arm and peered into his face. "No, please!" he said in a falsetto voice. "Do not draw your swords over me."

The assassin narrowed a glare of such utter death at Jarlaxle that the elf's newly-grown hair should have curled into ringlets. "I will not draw a sword _over_ you, but I will draw a sword and put it _in_ you."

"Of all the—!" Gregory choked in anger and unsheathed his sword. "I challenge you to a duel of honor!"

Entreri's lip curled, and he released Jarlaxle to reach for his weapons. The drow, apparently deciding that blood-letting would damage their profitable mission, rushed to Gregory's side and grabbed his arm.

"You must forgive my friend," Jarlaxle said is his feminine voice. He opened his eyes wide and pushed his fake breasts against the man's arm. "He is in a terrible humor and is often caustic in his remarks, but truly, he would never harm me."

Entreri ground his teeth together, but his practical side won out. They might need to return to the tavern and collect more information, after all.

"He threatened to kill you," Gregory said, grasping Jarlaxle's hand.

"Only in jest, I assure you," the drow said, bestowing upon the man one of his most charming smiles.

The gentleman hesitated momentarily, but then the faint blush returned to his cheeks. "Are you sure you will be safe?" he asked, kissing the back of Jarlaxle's hand.

Entreri snorted in disgust.

"I promise you." Jarlaxle's smile remained dazzling.

"Very well." Gregory released the drow with obvious reluctance and sheathed his sword. He watched narrowly as the assassin took 'her' arm and walked away.

"Although a real gentlemen would not turn his back on a challenge!" Gregory called coldly after the assassin.

Entreri stopped at the door and smiled back at the man. The coldness and violence contained in that smile could have coated the floor in ice. "Then you should thank your god I'm not a gentlemen."

* * *

Several miles outside of town, Entreri finally slowed his pace and led his companion into a clearing.

"You have to admit it was amusing," Jarlaxle said.

Entreri's glare shot forth acidic arrows.

"Where is your sense of humor!" Jarlaxle replied to that Look. "Whenever would an honorable human so defend a drow?"

Entreri's glare intensified to the lightning bolt stage.

Noting the increased anger, the drow smiled and put his hand on his abdomen. "I believe I feel my liver cooking inside my body."

"I'll be eating your liver if you don't desist," the assassin replied. "Truly, Jarlaxle, that man was ready to carry you upstairs and ravish you! And when he lifted your dress and found the wrong body parts, what do you think would have happened?"

The drow merely shrugged. "I would not have let him touch me."

"Really?" the assassin drawled. Then, like the snap of his fingers, suddenly Entreri became someone else: his facial expression, body language, and entire demeanor changed so completely that Jarlaxle blinked.

Entreri tossed his cloak over his shoulder and swept across the clearing toward the drow. With a stunning smile that lit his eyes, the assassin grasped Jarlaxle's hand and kissed his palm. In a smooth, cultured voice, he asked, "Then why did you let him kiss your hand?"

Jarlaxle nearly stumbled backward he was so shocked. His mouth fell slightly open, and an entire chest of gold could have been shoved under his nose without his noticing it. "I—I had to allow him that gesture because I was convincing him not to fight you."

Entreri dropped the drow's hand and stepped back. Immediately, the cynical assassin was back in place with his usual smirk. "You would do well to curb your dramatic impulses for the rest of the day," he said, patting the flute which hung on his belt. "I've discovered some wonderfully shrill notes to play."

Jarlaxle merely returned the smirk, but inwardly, he reminded himself that Entreri was indeed a consummate actor. Jarlaxle might engage his theatrical skills more often, but the assassin was no less talented. The man could become anyone he wished when he needed to gather information or affect an escape. And, apparently, Entreri was willing to use his acting skills to turn the tables on the drow.

Strangely pleased with the reminder of his clever friend's skills, Jarlaxle proceeded to change clothes so the two could fight their way through the monster-infested ruins and claim the delicious gems protected there.

* * *

Dawn was breaking before the two mercenaries returned to the clearing. Both were tired and scratched-up, but Jarlaxle grinned from ear-to-ear like a child with a new toy.

"They're beautiful," the drow said for the hundredth time.

"The rubies or the sapphires?" the assassin asked, wondering which one Jarlaxle was exclaiming over now.

The drow raised one dainty finger. "The sapphires do not exist. We didn't see anything except the rubies and some cobwebs."

Entreri snorted. "You are easily amused."

"Better than being a little hovering storm cloud, like someone I know," Jarlaxle replied, opening one of his pouches of holding. He reached into the inter-dimensional space and pulled out a wand. With a small frown, he reached in again. Out came a saddle.

"A saddle?" Entreri said, surprised. He'd assumed the drow was retrieving the hideous dress so he could don his disguise again.

"Not what I was after," the drow murmured. He reached in once more. Out came a bottle of wine, followed by crossbow. Then came a bar of soap and a rug.

The drow was looking distinctly ruffled. "I fear we may be in a wild magic zone. I never have such problems with my pouch!"

Entreri considered the way two of Jarlaxle's wands had misfired the night before and was forced to agree. Still, that didn't answer the question of why the drow carried a rug with him. "You keep strange items with you."

"I come prepared." Jarlaxle fished through the pouch.

"A rug?" Entreri insisted, incredulous.

The drow didn't reply, however. Instead, he pulled a small fox statue from the pouch, then a seashell and a woman's undergarments.

"I won't even ask," the assassin muttered.

Jarlaxle continued his search, his frown more pronounced now. He retrieved a bolt of shimmering cloth, a footstool, and a potted cactus.

Entreri merely sank his head in his hands. "I don't want to know."

A happy exclamation reclaimed the assassin's attention. He glanced up in time to see the drow pull out a canary yellow dress with crimson bows, followed by yellow slippers and white petticoats. With a sigh, Entreri decided he would burn the dress and replace it with a solid black one. Or perhaps a grey one. Whatever he could find that would be drab and offensive to the drow.

With a turn of a ring, Jarlaxle once again disguised his hair, eyes, and skin. Then he set to work changing his clothes. Entreri studied the bark of a nearby tree until the transformation was complete, then returned his attention to his companion. The drow was pointing to his padded chest.

"If we have more trouble with Gregory, I have the perfect solution," Jarlaxle said. He pointed at the intricate silver diamond design which was stitched in a strategically unfortunate place on each breast. "Do you see the diamonds?"

Entreri had been trying not to look. "Yes, I fear so."

Jarlaxle grinned. "I have enchanted them to work as magical runes. Any male who stares at them for too long becomes hypnotized and highly suggestible."

"Hypnotized?" the assassin repeated. "You're using your 'breasts' as weapons?"

The elf laughed. "Certainly! I use my flawless stomach muscles and natural handsomeness as a weapon when I am dressed normally. Why should I not use my feminine 'assets'?"

A sharp pain lanced through Entreri's head, and he reached up to massage the bridge of his nose.

"Now, let us return to the tavern and have breakfast!" the drow said, all cheer.

As usual, Entreri found his appetite less than healthy.

Entering the town provided to be unproblematic, but when the mercenaries walked into the tavern, they found Gregory McFellan awaiting them at a corner table. He immediately rushed to Jarlaxle's side and grabbed 'her' hand.

"I am relieved to see you safe and well," Gregory said. "I had feared for you at the hands of—" He glanced over the assassin with distaste. "—this man."

Jarlaxle carefully retracted his hand. "As I assured you I would be, I am unharmed."

Entreri ignored them and moved toward the bar. Jarlaxle got himself into this mess, and now he could get himself out of it.

"You are beautiful and graceful!" Gregory continued.

"Yes, quite true," the drow agreed easily.

"So you should not be resigned to such foul companion!"

Entreri ordered an ale and then turned to watch the spectacle.

"Perhaps," Jarlaxle said with the hint of a smile. "But he is extremely talented, and I could do not without his services."

Entreri nearly choked on his own breath. Didn't Jarlaxle know how sexual that sounded? Gregory would get the wrong idea!

All the color had drained from said gentlemen's face. "Services?" he whispered, although Entreri's keen ears still picked up on the word. "Surely, dear lady, you do not mean to say that the man is your—um—male concubine?"

Entreri was charging both of them before the sentence was even completed. Gregory took to the challenge willingly, drawing his sword and grinning at the assassin.

"So you do have a shred of honor!" Gregory said. "Very well, then. Let us duel!"

Jarlaxle was trying to catch the man's attention, likely to draw his eyes toward the magical runes on his fake breasts, but Gregory's gaze had suddenly become fixed on Entreri's belt. The assassin had tossed his cloak back as he reached to draw his weapons, and the man seemed undone by what he saw there.

Gregory stared up at the assassin. "A flute? You play a _flute_?"

Entreri completed his actions, drawing Charon's Claw and the vampiric dagger. "Are you going to comment on my pastimes?" The sentence declared the danger of that course of action.

Although he kept his sword raised, Gregory chanced a look at Jarlaxle. "My apologies. I see that you are right. Your friend does indeed have a softer side." The man backed off a step and then sheathed his weapon.

Ice crystals formed in all the drinks around the room as Entreri brought his death glare to bear upon the man. "Magical instruments indicate nothing about my personality."

But Gregory was patting Jarlaxle's arm. "I suppose he wears the vicious front in order to protect you, but clearly—"

Entreri decided to carve the man up into nice plump steaks.

Jarlaxle had quite a problem on his hands, but he managed to tow the assassin away from the town and leave Gregory . . . well, still breathing, at least.

"I have never seen anyone touchier about his hidden humanity," the drow sighed.

"And I have never seen a sexpot more willing to hide his manhood," Entreri snapped. "You do realize that the longer you wear that dress, the fewer women you'll attract?"

And so it was that one lady disappeared and was replaced by a bald-headed drow with a bare midriff.

* * *

_A/N: Thank you forever to my wonderful beta reader, Darkhelmetj. Poor you, stuck sifting through my insanity! Thank you also to all who read and review. _


End file.
